


Plaster Saint

by johnsarmylady



Series: Patriotverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Embarrassment, Humour, M/M, Sibling Rivalry, taunting Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rainy evening and a minor accident lead to an incident that Sherlock will never let his brother forget! </p><p>Originally written last year for TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plaster Saint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGameMrsHudsonIsAfoot/gifts).



Mycroft knew his brother wouldn’t let him live this down. Rain poured relentlessly on the British Government’s bare head as he walked away from his wrecked black car, leaving his driver to deal with the general fracas that was currently centred on the junction of Gloucester Place and Euston Road.

He was torn, he wanted to run, to get out of the rain, but Mycroft Holmes didn’t run anywhere. In fact, the last time he ran he was still at prep school, a chubby little eight year old who really hated sports with a vengeance.  So he walked. Swiftly.

xOx

John looked out of the window at the torrential rain.

“No sign of your brother yet” he said, not removing his gaze from wet London streets “What time are we supposed to be there”

“Mummy is expecting us at seven”

John could hear his flatmate’s pout, and smiled. He knew he’d been outmanoeuvred by Mycroft, and he was sulking. And that made John smile all the more – Sherlock was such a child.  He was about to say as much when his eye fell on the most unusual sight. He stared in amazement, then said

“Er…Sherlock…you might want to see this.”

Sherlock, hoping it might be an excuse not to attend the planned dinner, leapt to his feet and sped to the window. When he saw what John was staring at he gave a shout of laughter.

Moments later, soaked through and shivering, Mycroft entered 221B.

“What happened to your umbrella?” As soon as he said it John knew he really shouldn’t have, but then Sherlock made it worse by asking

“More to the point, brother dear, where have you left your car?”

“We had an accident” the admission was ground out between chattering teeth “I had to use my umbrella to force the lock on the door, or wait until the fire brigade arrived to cut me out”

“Shit! Are you okay?” John immediately fell into ‘doctor’ mode crossing the room to where the older man was dripping onto the carpet.

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft flapped a hand at the room in general “Anthea is arranging a change of clothes to be delivered, and another driver with a pool car. We should still make it to Mummy’s in good time”

That stopped Sherlock’s laughter. He pulled a face and flung himself down in his chair.

“Whose birthday is it anyway?” John asked, exchanging a towel for Mycroft’s soaked and ruined suit jacket.

“No-one’s”

“What?” his head snapping round, John looked at his flatmate. “But you said it was a celebration dinner”

“Oh do keep up, John – I thought you were the patriot here”

The blond doctor frowned, his flatmate waited and watched, seeing the exact moment when the proverbial penny dropped.

“St George’s Day? You mean you celebrate the patron saint of England?”

“Mummy does, only she’d been abroad celebrating it for the past couple of years, but she’s home now, and expects her sons to celebrate with her” Mycroft had been holding the towel loosely in his hand as he spoke, and now as he lifted it to dry his dripping hair John’s eyes widened.

“Mycroft, you’re bleeding!” he pointed to the red stain marring the white perfection of the terry cotton cloth.

“What?”

John stepped up to the embodiment of the British Government, running a practiced eye over the man in front of him. Spotting the large tear in the leg of his trousers, about mid-way down the front of his thigh, he reached out and brushed his fingers against the frayed material, watching as his fingertips stained red with blood.

“Right, get those trousers off; I need to check that out”

“Oh please!” Sherlock covered his eyes dramatically

“Shut up, prat. Now, Mycroft, trousers”

Mycroft started to make excuses, blustering about putting a plaster on it when his dry clothing arrived, but John would have none of it. Grabbing the medical kit from the kitchen cupboard, he came back into the living room and stared at the flustered man, not a word passing his lips, his whole demeanour screaming ‘Army Captain and Doctor’.

Letting his fingers drop away from his eyes, Sherlock watched with interest the stand-off between his brother and his flatmate. He knew his brother was used to always having his own way, but he had also been on the receiving end of his flatmate’s hard-eyed army stare.  He wished he’s been able to take bets on who would give in first.

In the end, John cheated.

“Okay then, have it your way. Please offer our apologies to your mother; we won’t be joining you both at dinner”

Sherlock grinned.

Mycroft’s face fell.

“But…”

“Professional standards, Mycroft. What kind of doctor will she assume me to be if I let her eldest son’s injury go untreated?”

“But it’s just a scratch”

“And people can die from untreated scratches – have you seen what tetanus can do to a person?” he put the medical kit on the coffee table and folded his arms. “Your choice”

Muttering under his breath, Mycroft turned aside and started to undo his trousers. Letting them fall to the floor, he stepped out of them, but stayed facing the wall.

“You’ll need to at least turn around, Mycroft”

Instead, the older man turned his foot, twisting his leg outwards like a ballerina. Sherlock sniggered.

John shook his head, grasped Mycroft’s arm and turned him around. As he moved his eyes down to look at the injury, his breath caught, and he choked on a laugh.

“Seriously Mycroft?” he giggled, piquing Sherlock’s interest.

A curly head appeared over John’s shoulder, grey eyes seeking the cause of his friend’s mirth. Mycroft, his face suffused with heat, stared over their heads.

“John what…. _Oh_!” a heartbeat later he too was giggling.

“I don’t see what’s so funny….” Mycroft could barely speak through his embarrassment as his brother and his flatmate stood, crying with laughter.

“You call me….” John finally gasped out “the patriot, but never…. _Never_ …have I ever worn white boxers with the cross of St George on them…..”

 

 

 


End file.
